


Patchwork

by lonelywalker



Category: The Art of Fielding - Chad Harbach
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Canon Gay Relationship, Character of Color, First Time, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, young!Guert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Owen spends his first night with Guert at the motel, he dreams about meeting the twenty-year-old Guert he'd seen in the college register.</p><p>Spoilers up to and including chapter 45.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patchwork

"Oh my goodness, are you all right?"

Spring at Westish was perhaps the most beautiful time of year. Despite fear of finals and the eventual separation of friends and lovers over the long summer, the sun was bright, the air was fresh, and the flowers were blooming. Everything seemed not only possible, but imbued with a startling sense of destiny. 

Along one path between the trees were, however, none of the excited, smiling throngs of students hurrying with their books and bags and athletic equipment. There were simply two boys, a bicycle, and a heap of books overturned in the grass.

The larger of the two, tall and broad-shouldered, his pristine white shirt now scuffed with dirt, looked up from underneath his fallen bike with more aggravation than real pain. "Do you often jump out of trees at people?"

The other – slender, in jeans, his hair much shorter than the current style and his skin a little darker than the average for the student body – was busy picking up the books, possibly spurred by the consideration that they were less easily repaired than either the bicycle or its owner. " _At_ people? No." He stacked up the books neatly on the path and stretched out his hand. "Owen Dunne."

The aggravation turned into polite mystification. The handshake was firm. "Guert Affenlight."

Together, they pushed the bicycle, old and heavy, to one side and Owen was about to haul the other boy up to his feet when something caught his eye. "Wait a moment. Hold still." He crouched down by Guert's leg, carefully folding up the bottom of his tan slacks. There, by the ankle, was a mess of oil and blood.

"It's nothing."

"It'll stain your pants." Owen swung his messenger bag off his shoulder and removed a nuclear disarmament badge from the front, using it to pin up the fabric before helping Guert up off the ground. "Where's your room?" he asked, picking up both his bag and Guert's books, which were now topped off by _The Scarlet Letter_. "Hawthorne? Did you know he and Melville were neighbors? Must have been quite the neighborhood association."

Guert picked up the bike from the ground, dusting himself off with his free hand and pushing coppery brown hair out of his eyes. "You like Melville?"

"I like his humor," Owen said. "His books are also useful as offensive weapons or doorstops."

"I can't really argue that." Guert smiled. "Oh, I'm in Phumber. Just up here. Thanks. You're a lit student?"

"I haven't seen you in any classes."

"I've audited a few. But I'm a biology major, really."

"Also a worthwhile subject." As they walked, Owen turned slightly and looked Guert up and down, up and down. "Didn't you used to play football?"

Guert nodded, his smile a little shy. "Quarterback. I don't really have time for it anymore."

"The uniform didn't do anything for you anyway. You look much better out of it." Owen pushed open the door to Phumber and gazed up the stairway while Guert locked up his bike by the entrance. Even if Guert's natural skin tone seemed to be a slightly reddish tan, like he was just getting over his first sunburn of the summer, an impartial observer might have judged him to be blushing. 

Owen, by comparison, and by comparison with most of the surrounding population, was cool and unfazed as he ignored whatever vague comment Guert was making about probably being able to take things from there and headed upstairs with the books anyway. "Are you a writer?"

"I'd like to be. Why do you ask?"

"I'm working on a play. Maybe you could give me your opinion."

Guert pulled a keychain from his pocket when they reached the second landing. "Sure, but unless it's about cell division I doubt I'll be much help."

"It's about sex." Owen leaned against the doorframe, watching while Guert unlocked the door to his room. "That must be within the realm of your expertise, surely?"

"Professional or personal?" Slowly, Guert's blush was turning into a smile. He pushed open the door. "After you."

"Both, I hope." Owen stepped into the room. Although certainly not the largest in Phumber Hall, the sense of space was made much greater by one of the two beds being flipped up to lean against the wall. One of the two shelves was packed with standard biology textbooks, the other with mostly library-issue tomes of American literature. On Guert’s desk lay several notepads, pens, and a copy of _Moby-Dick_ , overrun by annotations and bright slips of colored paper. "You don't have a roommate?"

Guert closed the door a little hesitantly, as if unsure whether Owen was likely to stay, and slipped his hands into his pockets. "He disappeared over Christmas break. Trouble at home, I think… They're supposed to assign me someone new whenever the usual round of arguments starts next semester. Roommate's too loud or smells or is-"

"Gay," Owen suggested.

There was a pause. 

"Or not, I suppose," Guert said. "Do you want some coffee?"

Owen was busy examining the _Moby-Dick_ notes. "Tea, if you've got it."

"I don’t. Or milk, actually. Sorry. I don't have guests very often."

"Your girlfriend takes her coffee black, then?"

Guert laughed, reaching down to check his ankle. "I don't have one of those either. Do you want your pin back?"

"Oh, your poor leg, I completely forgot." Owen closed the book and dropped his bag onto the floor. "Sit down. Let me look at it."

"Really, Owen, it's nothing."

"So it'll take me two seconds. Sit down, and while you're at it, tell me why someone as good-looking as you doesn't have a girlfriend."

Guert obediently sat on the edge of the bed, his deep gray eyes studying Owen with renewed curiosity. "You're very sweet, you know."

"I know." Owen was wetting a clean dishcloth in the bathroom sink.

"What were you even doing in that tree?"

"Oh, just thinking…" The cut really wasn't serious once he'd wiped away most of the oil and the already-drying blood, just a series of scrapes from the bicycle chain. But Owen cleaned it thoroughly, probably more than thoroughly, his fingers pressed to the warm muscle of Guert's leg. "I don't think you need a Band-Aid," he said finally, unpinning his badge. "It's stopped bleeding."

Guert smiled. "Thank you."

"De nada." Owen straightened up and, for a second, there was silence between them. He looked around again. "Oh, LPs... You like opera?"

"I'm trying to. One of my professors just gave me _Faust_. The guys upstairs complain every time I play it, though."

Owen, who did not care at all about the guys upstairs, removed the record from its sleeve and carefully set it on the somewhat rickety player. "I believe there is a volume control, if necessary."

"You can keep on believing." Guert smoothed back his hair a little nervously as the music began and Owen ducked down to rummage in his bag. 

"Smoke?" Owen asked. And then: "Mind if I lock the door?"

The second question seemed to logically follow, given that he was now holding up a joint.

"Um, sure." Guert moved so his back was against the wall, his long legs stretched out across the mattress, feet dangling. "I don't really… But there's a lighter here somewhere."

"You seem tense," Owen said conversationally, the door locked, the lighter located, as he sat down next to Guert, shoulder to shoulder.

"I've never smoked pot before."

Owen raised his eyebrows and lit the joint. "Are you sure you were the quarterback?"

"Maybe it was all a marijuana-induced haze," Guert said, watching him. "And I don't even know you. You just fell on top of me."

"If I happen to do it again I have every confidence you can fight me off. You must weigh twice what I do."

Guert took the joint from him, closing his eyes. "That's not the problem.” He breathed in long and slow, a practiced smoker, and let the breath out with a sigh. “The problem is I might not want to.”

Owen nodded, reaching across to undo the clasp of Guert’s slacks. “I thought that might be it.”

Guert barely moved as Owen unzipped his fly and slipped down the fabric of his briefs, taking Guert’s soft but quickly responsive penis in his hand. The music, indeed, was growing and soaring to fill the room, but no one was likely to be trying to sleep at this hour. 

Owen glanced at Guert’s closed eyes and shifted position, stretching lengthwise along the bed, one hand out to keep himself steady, the other guiding Guert into his mouth. Guert’s hips jerked suddenly, involuntarily, and he was big enough now that it could have made Owen cough and choke. But instead he murmured his pleasure loudly enough for Guert to hear and began to blow him in earnest. 

After a moment, Guert’s hand came to rest on Owen’s closely-cropped hair, not with enough force to _keep_ him there if he’d wanted to move, but just enough to say, _yes, I like this_. His hips rocked, a gentler motion, his breath catching. 

He must have dropped the joint in the ashtray by the bed, because after a while his other hand smoothed down the back of Owen’s t-shirt, came to rest for a few seconds in the small of his back, and then moved again, elegant fingers squeezing Owen’s ass, making Owen moan around Guert’s penis, digging his crotch into the bed. 

Almost reluctantly, Owen lifted his head, kissing the tip of Guert’s saliva-coated penis. “Do you want to fuck me?”

He caught a brief look of fear and indecision in Guert’s eyes before the silent nod. 

“Do you have… something?” He didn’t wait for an answer, backing up off the bed and going to rummage in the bathroom. When he returned with Vaseline, Guert’s shirt was off, his chest and arms and – _oh_ – shoulders still impressively muscled, at least and especially in comparison to Owen. But Owen took off his own t-shirt too, as a naked, gorgeous Guert knelt on the bed, pressed a hand to the center of his chest, and kissed him. 

The warmth of Guert’s hand around him was something both unexpected and very, very welcome, coaxing him to full hardness and a new height of arousal.

They both took drags on the joint before Owen lay down, moving one of Guert’s pillows beneath his hips. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“No, not really.” But Guert’s fingers were gentle and warm and _lovely_ when they eased inside him, leaving his entire body somehow both far more relaxed and far more on edge than before, and filled with such heat he could feel the sweat begin to prick on his forehead.

"Okay?" Guert asked, his breath already coming quickly, and Owen nodded.

Slow pressure turned into a sudden burning pain, and Owen squeezed his eyes shut, holding his breath. Even if Guert was taking care to be slow, he was inexperienced and there was absolutely no part of him that was small. 

"Owen?"

Owen reached a hand back to grasp Guert's hip, making him move, and the pain dissolved into that almost-familiar full sensation that made Owen breathe again. His penis felt heavy and thick and far too sensitive between the pillow and his belly. 

"Oh," Guert said, letting himself fall forward slightly, his palms planted outside Owen's, the tips of his hair tickling Owen's neck. "Oh god. I didn't know this would..."

"Feel good?" Owen suggested, although the calm amusement he might have hoped to exude was very far from his voice. 

Guert grabbed onto Owen's hip. "Can you… I can't touch you like this. I want to touch you."

"You're a needy one." Moving at all, especially back onto Guert's penis, felt like it would make him explode. But he did it anyway, pushing Guert up and back so they were kneeling together, Guert's hands, still scored with football callus, already moving over his chest, curiously brushing nipples, and starting to stroke him. "You can't pretend I'm a girl like this."

Guert gave his penis an affectionate squeeze. "Why would I want to pretend you're a girl?"

He wished there was a mirror just so he could see it all: Guert's beautiful body and earnest expression and gorgeous _everything_ as Guert fucked him, stroked him, _made_ him groan out Guert’s name. But after a few moments his eyes were closed, overcome with sensation. It was all right. Guert was just as impossibly beautiful in his imagination too. 

He came in Guert's fisted hand and watched, dazed, as streams of semen ran down over Guert’s fingers. And then Guert too was coming, gasping “Owen, Owen” as if they’d known each other all their lives. 

The opera played on as they lay together, sticky and sweaty and radiating heat, and no one banged on the door or the ceiling.

“You should fall out of trees more often,” Guert said, his fingers tracing runes over Owen’s chest, down his belly.

Owen smiled. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before? Most men aren’t quite so comfortable with other men’s bodies.”

Guert laughed. “I grew up on a farm.”

“So?”

“So my hands have been a lot worse places than your ass.”

Owen retrieved the smoldering joint from the ashtray and kissed Guert once, and then once more. “Guert Affenlight,” he said, “you’re adorable. Don’t ever change.”

***

“Owen? O?”

Owen’s cheek was aching, and it felt like the middle of the night however much the light level beyond his eyelids might disagree with him. The pillow also felt different than usual, and the hand resting on his shoulder didn’t feel much at all like Henry’s.

He opened his eyes. “Guert?”

Guert smiled. “It’s seven. You said I had to promise to get you to breakfast on time.”

Seven already? Owen rolled over onto his back with a groan and stretched. Usually he slept well and rose feeling perfectly rested, or at least rested enough to make some coffee. This morning he felt… like he’d drunk too much, smoked too much, and only got to sleep a few hours ago, following several hours of sex intermingled with cable TV. It was horrible and disgusting and incredible and wonderful all at once.

He glanced at Guert. Guert, the college president, who he knew was naked under the duvet, whose body he’d explored in painstaking, exquisite detail the night before. Guert, who was now looking nervous, or at least undecided, about how wise it was to still be naked and in bed with a student during what were allegedly daylight hours. Owen patted his shoulder. “I had fun last night.”

The smile was a relieved one. “Good. I wish we could do it more often.”

Owen closed his eyes, calculating just how bad it would be if he missed breakfast. Not that bad. No one would actually starve or panic or raise the alarm on his account. On the other hand, one or two people would wonder… One or two people were probably already wondering where Guert was. 

For a moment he imagined what might occur if Henry and Pella were to run into one another. At least three out of four scenarios involved Henry not saying anything at all, or at least nothing other than baseball stats. Good old Henry.

“I want to take you a movie sometime,” Owen said. “You don’t have to watch it. Just sit there and eat popcorn, unless you don’t like that either, and let me put my arm around you in the dark.”

“For ninety minutes?”

“Longer.”

Guert moved closer to him, settling his head down on Owen’s shoulder, an arm flung over his chest. “Good god. And where would we do such a thing?”

“I haven’t seen much of Milwaukee yet. I suppose I should while I’m here.”

“I suppose you should.”

Guert smelled nice, even after an evening of beer and fish and sex. He felt nice too, had a good body under those beautiful suits, or at least a much better body than Owen had been expecting. Not that he wanted Guert for his body. But… He didn’t _not_ want Guert for his body either. It was a very nice body, in any case, and if Guert had seemed a little worried about stripping off, not that Owen had finely-sculpted abs or finely-sculpted anything, Owen had touched and kissed just about every inch of him by the time they went to sleep. 

He’d asked about every tiny silver-white scar: sibling fights, football injuries, bartending accidents. And he’d lingered on the whale tattoo without asking, at first surprised that someone like Guert would have such a thing at all, and then surprised at himself for not realizing how absolutely natural it was. Guert had never been married, had never really committed himself to anything for the long-term. But _Moby-Dick_ was forever.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Guert stirred, flexed. “All right.”

“Really?” Owen wasn’t entirely convinced Guert ever admitted to _not_ feeling all right.

“My head hurts a bit. How much beer did you let me drink?”

Owen’s fingers brushed against Guert’s hair, which was usually distinguished enough for a congressman and this morning more keenly resembled a congressman who had spent the night in a hedge. “ _Let_ you? Am I my Affenlight’s keeper? But there’s Advil in my bag.”

“You’re a sweetheart. And a boy scout.”

“Boy scout? Oh please, Guert. Don’t even get me start-”

Guert kissed him: a good, deep, solid kiss that pressed him back into the pillow and was laced with intent. Owen felt like giving him a back-pat for achieving acceptable levels of gayness before noon.

“Morning sex is a little less easy with a guy, huh?” Guert said, one knee already planted between Owen’s thighs.

Owen looked down, raised his leg to nudge Guert’s erection. “It’s still pretty easy…”

“Show me?” 

Guert never looked _old_ , but he could seem impossibly youthful with those clear, guileless gray eyes and his boyish smile. Owen took his head in both hands and kissed him again. “You liked it last night?”

“It was wonderful,” Guert said, and ducked his head, embarrassed in the way Henry might be embarrassed, in the way a twenty-year-old Guert Affenlight, who had never been out of Wisconsin, might have been embarrassed. “The beer probably helped.”

Owen ran his fingertips down Guert’s spine. “I hope you won’t need to be borderline drunk every time we make love.”

“Oh, I’m quite sober now.”

“And tense. Does it hurt?”

Guert was, if not pink, then at least a slightly pinker shade of mahogany. “It feels… like you’re still inside me. I never thought I’d like it. You get to my age, prostate exams aren’t the most pleasant occurrence.”

“You can tell Student Health your prostate’s just fine.” Owen let his hand rest on Guert’s ass. “Guert… If you’re wondering, enjoying being penetrated doesn’t make you any less of a man.”

“Define your terms, Mr. Dunne.”

“You need to stop worrying so much about being normal.”

Guert smiled. “Normal? If I’d worried about being normal I’d be running a dairy farm not far south of here, with a wife and four or five kids. Instead I’m the liberal intellectual uncle no one talks about at Thanksgiving.”

“You’re a straight white male in academia, Guert. You’re hardly an outlier.”

“Straight?”

“As far as anyone but me is concerned. Which is entirely your business, of course, and I understand our case has its own restrictions… But you care a little too much about what other people think.”

Guert dropped down to his side with a sigh. “It’s not true.”

“It’s not?” Owen rolled over too, tempering his words with gentle strokes over Guert’s penis, keeping him hard. 

“No. It’s just… I love my job, and I don’t know how to tell Pella. And… I want to make you happy, and I’m not sure how. I’ve never done any of this before.”

“Well, clearly.”

“I don’t mean anal sex,” Guert said with a hint of laughter relieving his momentary gloom. “I mean _this_. Being in love. Or wanting to be.”

“You,” Owen said, “are an unforgivable romantic. Turn over.”

Normally (as though he’d done it enough times for anything to be considered normal), he liked sex after showers, which would rapidly become sex between showers. But he and Guert barely had time for this, even if missing the entire Coshwale game wouldn’t have any effect on the team, and just the _noises_ Guert made, as Owen used his mouth and fingers and finally pushed inside him, made Owen’s own desire spike high enough that any thoughts of anything that wasn’t Guert and Guert’s ridiculously stupefying body were simply cast aside.

Yesterday evening, Guert, paler and more stricken with fear than Owen had ever seen him, had nodded and said, in a faint whisper: “Okay.”

“Okay?” Owen had still been not a little stoned, however eloquent and logical he could still be in that state, which was apparently a good deal more eloquent and logical than Guert could be while contemplating the idea of actually going on a date.

“I’ll pick you up from behind the sports fields in ten minutes.”

“Pick me up?”

Guert had got up from the chair and squeezed both of Owen’s upper arms, like he was Coach Cox trying to psyche up Izzy to hit a curve ball. “Dinner. A motel. I’ll teach you about opera, but my shirt doesn’t quite match my eyes. Sorry.”

“… _now_?”

“Did you have other plans?”

When Guert left to go get his car, Owen had grabbed his messenger bag and a few things – toothbrush, floss, a change of underwear, and, after a moment of thought, condoms and lubricant. Broaching the subject last night, he’d felt as anxious as Guert looked, but once they were safely under the covers in a locked motel room, with no more lies to tell or worries that someone they knew would see them, Guert had simply said: “I wondered when you were going to ask.”

Now he was moving under Owen, his breaths short and mingled with moans of pure, sheer _want_. Owen wasn’t sure he sounded any less needy himself.

“Hey O? Can I… Can we change position? I want to see you.”

Owen licked his lips. “I’m not sure that would be very comfortable for you.”

“None of this is very comfortable for me,” Guert said, half into the pillow. “But I’m still enjoying it.”

“You won’t when the endorphins wear off.”

“So, it’s the weekend. I can spend two days in bed with an icepack. I need you now.”

Yesterday, Owen had seriously doubted Guert’s ability to have anything more of a relationship with him than covert blow jobs in a locked office, like so many corrupt and outwardly straight politicians. But here was Guert, the morning after they’d had dinner together like a real couple, after they’d spent the night together, not only asking to be fucked but enjoying it.

He would have considered apologizing, but Guert looked so absolutely blissful already that it was clearly unnecessary. 

“You should come to my yoga classes at the VAC,” Owen said, when Guert grimaced for a moment as Owen pushed his legs up and back before easily sliding inside him again.

“Yoga, right…” Guert stroked fingertips down his cheek, onto his chest. “You’re the most perfect creature I’ve ever seen.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d think Guert was absolutely, completely stoned out of his mind. But he knew better. “Mm, Guert,” he said, leaning in to kiss him, his thrusts finding a steady rhythm that wasn’t yet desperate. “No Whitman today?”

“Manly love?” Guert began to touch himself, lazy strokes that quickly became something with more intent. “College baseball star and the quarterback? We’re the manliest.”

“And I’m surprised you haven’t compared me to Queequeg yet.”

“It’s true, I did wake up with a Harpooner this morning…” Guert broke off with a gasp of breath. “You might want to go a little faster there, Ishmael.”

“Ishmael?” 

“Well obviously I’m Ahab.”

“Then maybe I’m your… oh Guert, Jesus…” Keeping himself from coming had never been an issue before. He and Jason would just go again, and again. Now he felt as engulfed by waves as the whale on Guert’s arm. 

“It’s okay.” Guert’s free hand was steady on his shoulder as Owen’s eyes closed. He felt Guert come – a deep spasming of muscles, a faint spray against his belly – a split-second before he heard Guert cry out his name. Which somehow made gasping Guert’s name over and over a moment later just fine. It wasn’t some sort of commitment, however tightly Guert held him as the aftershocks passed, but it could be.

“You’re not my white whale,” Guert said, some moments or minutes later, Owen still lying mostly on top of him, just about ready to say to hell with the Harpooners and that maybe they should just stay here till Monday.

“Wrong color?”

“Wrong everything. Although if the Harpooners start a major losing streak once you’re back on the bench, I might have to wonder.”

Owen kissed his shoulder. “You should take a shower. And shave. People are going to notice if you look like you haven’t been home all night.”

“Pella’s going to know anyway.” 

“Maybe not.”

Guert groaned and kissed him on the forehead. “All right. But I don’t have a razor.”

“I brought you one.”

Guert slid out from under him, going to look in Owen’s bag. “Like I said, O, you’re a regular boy scout.”

While Guert was in the shower, Owen cleaned himself up as best he could with motel-room Kleenex and put on yesterday’s clothes – he would have time to grab a quick shower before changing into his team uniform as long as they didn’t hit too much traffic on the way back to Westish. 

He picked up Guert’s clothes too, folding them neatly on the bed and taking out Guert’s phone, switched off since his conversation with Pella last night during dinner. Owen switched it on, ignoring the alerts about text messages and going straight to the address book, where he entered his own number under O. It wasn’t entirely unreasonable for the college president to have his number, given their many environment-oriented discussions, but it wasn’t entirely reasonable either.

He was in the process of saving Guert’s number on his phone under “Ahab” when Guert, showered and freshly-shaven and looking almost awake, returned from the tiny bathroom. “I hope there’s a coffee machine around here. What’s that?”

Owen held up his phone. “You can text me next time. You do know how to text, don’t you, Guert?”

Guert swung his shirt around his shoulders. “Do I put my lips together and blow?”

“So you have seen a movie.”

“Those made before I was born don’t count. The ones made after you were born count double.”

Owen smiled. “You’re adorable.” He cocked his head to the side, recalling something that already seemed like a distant memory and was becoming vaguer by the second. “I had a dream about you last night.”

“You did? Did I have fun?”

“We made love. But you were younger, like the photograph in the old register, the one with the bicycle.”

Guert had seemed strangely on edge while he’d been flipping through the photos, and Owen had just assumed his mind was on other things, or that perhaps he was embarrassed by the 60s haircuts and tight football pants. But now that same tension was back, as Guert said “Oh” with absolutely no enthusiasm and suddenly seemed absolutely fascinated with his own pants.

“Why does it bother you that I think you were hot when you were my age? Would you prefer I wasn’t attracted to you? You’re still the best-looking guy on campus.”

“Ha-ha.” Guert sat down beside him to lace up his shoes. For a moment it seemed as no answer would be forthcoming, but then he sighed. “I’m just… I’m not him, O. I’m sure you must look back at yourself when you were fourteen or eighteen or even last year and think of all the stupid things you did and how immature you were and how much you didn’t know…” He glanced at Owen. “Well, you’re a bad example. But you know what I mean.”

“Not really. You think you were incapable of love when you were twenty?”

“I was incapable of love until February. You walked into my office with all your brilliance and my heart’s felt primed to burst ever since. The same thing happened with Pella. I never wanted children. I didn’t plan it. I spent Sarah’s pregnancy in a bit of a blind panic. But then this little girl showed up and I couldn’t _not_ love her, even if I didn’t know how.”

Owen smiled. “You weren’t incapable, Guert. It just took the right circumstances. It’s completely understandable, particularly if you’ve spent your entire life subconsciously denying your sexuality.”

“I would have been _fine_ being gay,” Guert insisted. “I’ve never exactly been a homophobe. I just… wasn’t. I like women. I still like women. But I’ve never fallen in love with a woman.”

“Just me.”

“Just you.”

“And if, say, twenty-year-old you with his long hair and muscles and striking good looks was just pushing his bicycle through campus and I happened to fall out of the sky? What do you think would’ve happened?”

Guert pushed back damp hair from his forehead and stood up. “I have no idea. But I hope we would’ve been happy.”

“We can still be happy.”

“We can try.” Guert scooped up Owen’s bag from the floor and handed it to him. “The Advil will probably help. And coffee. And for my daughter to miraculously forgive me for failing her in her time of need last night. But mostly the Advil.”

By the door, one hand on the latch, Guert hesitated and turned back, kissing Owen good and hard one last time before real life resumed. 

“Okay,” he said, and straightened his jacket, smoothed down his hair, sucked in a lungful of air. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Outside, the sun was bright, the air was fresh, and the flowers were blooming. 

Everything seemed not only possible, but imbued with a startling sense of destiny.


End file.
